


best of intentions

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anxiety, Bathing/Washing, Confessions, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Gen, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Monsters, Season/Series 15, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 20:50:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18924763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: It hasn’t stopped raining in ten days.A month since God left—thirty-one days since God stranded them amidst a sea of both the undead and the spirits they already snuffed out once—and Dean can barely open his eyes anymore.





	best of intentions

It hasn’t stopped raining in ten days.

A month since God left—thirty-one days since God stranded them amidst a sea of both the undead and the spirits they already snuffed out once—and Dean can barely open his eyes anymore. He can’t even chalk it up to the mattress, really; a spring digs into his side, and the pillow smells like someone stashed lit cigarettes inside, but right now, it might as well be the most comfortable place in the world. The air conditioner works, Sam is awake in the other bed, and Castiel is reading at the corner table, chair propped up against the wall.

Everyone is alive—almost everyone, rather. Dean’s stomach once again sinks, and he rolls over onto his other side, sighing into the musty sheets. For once, neither Sam nor Castiel bother to try and get him out of bed. Occasionally, Sam sighs and gets up, walks outside presumably to the vending machine; Castiel flips through pages, chair legs creaking, his breathing steady and rhythmic. Dean’s body screams at him to get up, to start packing for their next case, but his mind says different.

His mind says to give up and just lie there until he withers, just like the rest of the world.

Ten o’clock rolls around, the sky just as gray as ever, and Sam returns for a third time, this time shaking the plastic ice bucket, hopefully not intentionally. “I think I found a case,” he announces, quiet yet everything Dean feared. “Local, just a haunting. Won’t take more than a day, if we’re lucky.”

“If we’re lucky,” Dean parrots and pulls the blankets over his head. “It involve interviews?”

“Already took care of it.” Rolling over, Dean peeks out from underneath the sheet to see Sam placing the ice bucket on Castiel’s table, along with three questionably old Coke cans. “Lori met me at the auto place across the street,” Sam explains, sitting on the edge of his bed. “Didn’t ask questions, didn’t ask for a badge. All she said was her brother Thomas is terrorizing the congregation in Raybon. Not your standard haunting either.”

“Course it’s not,” Dean sighs. “Fuckers are getting nastier these days.”

“You’re telling me,” Sam half-laughs. Shaking his head, he reaches down to unlace his loafers, sodden from the rain. “Apparently he’s leaving behind bloody scripture from Revelations on the walls. Last week, their field was inexplicably burned, right after they planted for the season.”

“He’s trying to send a message,” Castiel assumes. Chair legs hit the floor; out of the corner of his eye, Dean watches him dogear a page in his paperback. “Even the ghosts are beginning to suspect that God isn’t with us.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean grunts and sits up, “good riddance, is all I gotta say.” God got them into this mess in the first place, the least He could do was stick around—that, though, is too much to ask for these days.

A shiver works its way down Dean’s spine, and not from the air conditioner; after Jack died, all Dean has felt is cold, down to his bones. Sleeping doesn’t help, and nor does Sam or Castiel’s presence or the comforting words they offer, Castiel’s occasional touch lingering on his shoulders when Sam isn’t looking. Now, blankets draped over his waist and an ever-present chill in his veins, he can’t help but feel… isolated, so terribly alone.

“Hey.” Sam waves his hand, catching Dean’s attention, albeit delayed. “You with me?”

At that, Castiel perks up, gaze narrowing. Dean ignores him to the best of his ability and shakes his head, letting out a shuddering breath. “Yeah, I’m here.”

Sam’s lips curl into a frown, but he doesn’t otherwise push. Fully, Dean expected him to—expects him to, really, except now, both of them seem to be dancing around suspicions. “Anyway,” Sam says through a sigh, kicking off his shoes, “she gave me his journal. Apparently, the guy was a poet when he was alive.”

“Authors do tend to lend their souls to their works,” Castiel comments, to Sam’s nod. Dean tucks his blanket tighter, fisting the fabric until his knuckles blanch. “Dean.”

“I said I’m fine,” Dean asserts, then hangs his head. “Sorry, I’m… Fuck.” Palming his eyes doesn’t block out the world, but it does blind him for a few seconds, long enough to keep from tearing up. _Again_. “Something’s wrong with my head, man.”

Across the room, Castiel makes a noise, something Dean prays isn’t pity. Socked feet pad across the carpet— _when did he take off his shoes_?—and soon stand before him; warm hands hold Dean’s face, purely observatory and in no way how Dean wants them. Though, the thumbs sweeping under his eyes are unmistakable—whatever that means, Dean files it away for another day. “You’re not suffering from anything physical,” Castiel says. Again, out of Sam’s line of sight, Castiel pets over his cheek, gentle enough for Dean to believe it. “How long have you been feeling like this?”

Dean snorts and ducks away, anything to get Castiel to stop touching him. “Don’t got that kinda time,” he sighs, rubs his face again. Castiel’s warmth lingers on his cheeks, and desperately, Dean craves his touch once again, just to ease the burden even for a few minutes. “I’m fine, I’m… Really. Give me a few minutes and I’ll get—”

“Dean.” This time, Sam pipes up, the concern in his voice so reminiscent of every other time they’ve been in danger, or injured, or worse. Now, though, he just sits with his hands on his knees, eyes softer, worry lines wrinkling his forehead. “Whatever it is, you can tell us, alright? Even if it’s something simple like—”

“Depression?” Hollow, Dean laughs. Always the reason—or, the excuse, as John called it, as for why Dean refused to leave the bed some days, why he snapped and shouted whenever things got too frustrating, why he always ate either too much or too little, and sometimes nothing at all. A scar still stretches lengthwise up his wrist, faded now, but at one point, a reminder of his failures, of the fact that even when he wanted to, he could never die on his own terms. “That’s what this is, just your garden variety mental illness.”

“You know that’s not what this is,” Castiel says, eyes half-lidded. A hand covers his shoulder, palm warm against Dean’s frigid skin.

“And we’re here for you.” Standing, Sam folds his arms, then lets them drop, hands fidgeting at his sides. Dean turns his head when Sam brushes one through his hair, fully expecting Sam to hit him, or drag him out of bed. A kneejerk response, but he hates it all the same. “Just like I know you’re here for us, if we needed anything.”

 _Am I, though_? Pulling the sheet tighter around his waist, Dean doesn’t even bother to fake a smile. “Just wish I didn’t have to be awake,” he says, closing his eyes. _If only I didn’t have to breathe_.

-+-

The Raybon Church sits about a quarter mile off Raybon Road, hidden down a gravel strip and surrounded by a half-burnt cotton field. Parked on a dirt path on the other side of the street, Dean thumps his knee against the steering wheel, absently picking at a cuticle while Sam and Castiel chat outside, pulling shovels and gasoline out of the trunk. _Not anxiety_ , he thinks, but that would explain the sudden urge to vomit all over the floorboard and the stomach cramps every time he moves. Just getting into the car was a struggle in the first place—after that, he barely remembers driving the thirty minutes from Waycross to… wherever they are.

“Fucking boonies,” Dean mutters and punches the seat, afterward palming the leather. _Suck it up and deal. It’s not that bad_.

The knock to the door startles Dean into a near-panic; even after seeing Castiel staring back at him, his heart refuses to settle, threatening to burst out of his chest. “Jesus Christ,” Dean swears, then shakes his head. _Don’t take it out on him_. “Warn a guy, will you?”

“I’ve been knocking for two minutes,” Castiel says, muffled through the window, and—maybe his attention span is worse than he thought. “You can stay here if you want.”

“No, no, I’m…” Breathing—breathing helps, but only if he can catch his breath in the first place. “Just give me a sec, okay?”

With a bow, Castiel backs off, moving to stand in the middle of the road. Wind whips through his coat tails, and rain drips off of his umbrella, cascading into the mud; for a minute, Dean just concentrates on him, on the mundane things like the missing button on the front of his coat, the stitch running down the side from where a zombie tore a hole in it, the scar just over his eyebrow from an incident Dean can’t really recall. The last four weeks meld together in a blur, lost somewhere between periods of sleep and existential dread during his waking hours.

 _I need help_ , he admits to himself—if only he could say it aloud.

Dean waits another minute before stepping out of the car, slamming the door behind him. Humidity warms his skin in a sickening way, the rain keeping the temperatures mild but sticky; briefly, the chill abates, enough to ease the occasional shiver and the jitter in his hands. “Hey,” Sam calls at his back, trunk thunking closed. He offers a short-handled shovel and another compact umbrella, his own already opened above his head. Dean takes them, gripping the shovel a little too tightly. “You ready to go?”

Gathering the last of his resolve, Dean nods and looks to Castiel. “As I’ll ever be,” he musters, and walks.

For mid-July, the weather couldn’t be any worse: rain falls hard enough to splatter mud onto their shoes, the wind keeps blowing water into Dean’s face whenever it gusts, and worst of all, the humidity sits stagnant in the air, thick and weighing him down. Sweat beads along Dean’s nape as he walks, Sam at his front and Castiel following behind. After crossing the empty two-lane and stepping onto the gravel path leading up to the church, Castiel places his hand to the small of Dean’s back. Purely for comfort, Dean thinks—

Until Castiel creeps closer, their shoulders brushing. “I can sleep with you tonight, if you want,” he whispers, shielding Dean with his umbrella, and Dean’s face immediately heats. No—he doesn’t mean it like that. _Does he_? “When I held you earlier, you practically fell into me.”

“So I’m touch-starved, sue me,” Dean huffs, just loud enough for Castiel to hear. His heart races faster with Castiel’s proximity, and only with a burst of Grace does it calm; not exactly a cure for anxiety, but enough to keep him from dry heaving in the weeds. “When we get back to the hotel, I’ll let you go all psych session on me. But, just… I’ll keep it in mind, okay?”

Shy, Castiel smiles, his hand slipping away. His absence leaves Dean cold all over again, knuckles white around the shovel. _Just a few more hours_ , he tells himself, swallowing around the lump in his throat. _Then you can go home_.

-+-

Salt and burns are less trial and error and more of a refined science these days. Rather than single out a body and burn the remains, Sam and Rowena devised a spell that quells any restless spirits within the entire cemetery, and Castiel blesses the earth, returning lingering souls to their final destination. What would’ve taken them hours before now only lasts thirty minutes, from the moment they break ground to concealing the four holes dug at each cardinal point, each with a wooden box inside filled with—as strange as it feels—written prayers.

Normally, Dean would participate, just to speed things along; today, he sits under the church’s rear awning, mind drifting while he watches Castiel and Sam work, gradually making their way around the cemetery. Occasionally, blue light bleeds from Castiel’s fingers, and with it, a spirit or two sputters, their souls traveling in either direction—most, in this case, northward. How they hadn’t thought of this years ago, Dean has no clue. All those years breaking his back, just to be replaced by a few holes and whispered words.

 Rhythmically, Dean rubs his hands together, trying to regain feeling in his fingers. Not from the cold, but from the adrenaline crash, body exhausted to the point of near-sleep. Day in and out, he operates on next to no energy, only to collapse into bed and dream of nothing but dread, an endless nightmare he can’t wake from. Rarely, he imagines he feels hands on him, petting him, like he needs to be consoled—and maybe in a way, he does. Admitting his needs is an increasingly difficult feat nowadays, considering their current predicament.

Said predicament, Dean just wants out of. Given the chance, and he might take God’s offer if it still stands, if it meant he could escape his own personal brand of torture. Being alive has its perks, though; the world may be a cesspool of chaos, but he still has Sam, and Castiel—and sincerely, he hopes wherever Jack is, that he’s happy. That he’s looking down at them, that he’s proud. 

Ritual completed, Castiel and Sam stand facing the cemetery, staring down the amorphous shape of Thomas Callen manifesting, unable to take form. Another perk of their new purification system—ghosts can’t fight back. Pulling the journal from his jacket pocket, Sam torches the pages and tosses the flaming mass onto a bare patch of dirt; with it, Thomas’ ghost dissipates and makes a beeline south, just where Dean imagined someone like him might end up.

Rain pitter patters across the grounds, pouring off the roof in streams; thunder cracks somewhere close by, but in no discernable direction, and never venturing any nearer. Exhaling, Dean watches Sam and Castiel return to the alcove, sitting on the hard concrete with wet hair and even more sodden clothes. Sam pulls his coat off and wrings out his shirt; Castiel dumps the water from his loafers onto a step.

“Wish we would’ve always known it was that easy,” Dean says, leaning his head against the siding. “Should bake you two a cake.”

Sam snorts, his smile breaking through. “It’s saving us on future medical bills, for sure,” he says. Eventually, he pulls his shirt off and lays it out flat. “Getting the word out’s helping, but it’s just… every graveyard across the country, man. Places that weren’t even haunted before are overrun, and we can only tackle the ones that hit the papers.”

Even Castiel sours at that, eyelids sagging as he sinks backwards, thumping into the wall. Dean feels for him, really; angel or not, he shouldn’t have to be slumming it with two broken down hunters, trying to amend a wrong they for once didn't cause. “I’m not convinced we’ll be able to fix this,” Castiel admits, his chest deflating. “I’ve lost track of how long we’ve been away from home.”

“Too long,” Dean says, eyes slipping shut. Somehow, the rain pours even harder now, the sky darkening further beyond Dean’s eyelids. Rubbing his hands together, he continues, quiet, “I miss my bed.”

“We’re gonna head back soon,” Sam says, truth in his voice. Whether or not he actually believes it is the question. Every time they finish one hunt, another pops up, an endless cycle of cleansing and dirt under his nails and blood on his hands. “Hopefully it’s not raining there.”

“Amen to that.” Dean lifts a hand to the sky. “I can go without rain for the next year.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Castiel says. Out of one eye, Dean watches him smile, just faint enough to exist. “I’d really like some dry clothes.”

Shivering, Dean nods and shoves his way to his feet. The sooner they make it back to the motel, the sooner he can sleep. “Then grab your stuff. Laundry day’s tomorrow.”

-+-

Dinner consists of two boxes of Little Caesar’s and a two liter of Sprite, neither of which Dean can stomach, but shovels down anyway to quell his plummeting blood pressure. Lying in bed and curled underneath the blankets afterward, Dean listens to the television and Sam’s occasional typing, while Castiel sits on the opposite side of Dean’s bed, head bowed and fingers steepled into his forehead. The air conditioner rattles; a car honks on the highway.

 _Quiet_. “What if I can’t be fixed?” Dean breaks the silence, turning to face Castiel’s hip. Avoiding their gaze will only last for so long, especially with the way Castiel turns, immediately reaching for his shoulder. Sam must move, because the mattress sinks at Dean’s feet, and a hand covers his ankle. Suffocating, but his body revels with the contact. “I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

“I know,” Sam says, squeezing Dean’s foot. “Look, I think we both get it. After everything we’ve been through… It’s almost like the walls are caving in, some days, and you just have to muddle through.”

“Both of you have suffering well beyond your years,” Castiel adds. Lip between his teeth, Dean struggles to hide his face even further. “And you’ve rarely mentioned it, unless under duress. Talking about just what you’re experiencing might help.”

Minutely, Dean flinches; Castiel strengthens his hold ever so slightly, cementing Dean into his skin, into the moment. Shame heats his cheeks, and his eyes sting under their scrutiny. “Wish I didn’t feel like this,” he says, fragile in the way he hates. Admitting to his faults, to his feelings, has never been his strong suit, especially around those he cares for. “Wish it didn’t… How am I supposed to talk about this?”

“You don’t have to,” Sam says, quiet. “Trust me, I know it’s hard, but we just wanna help you. You gotta talk to us, man.”

 _I can’t_ , Dean thinks. But his body says otherwise, the words spilling out of his mouth before he can catch them. “Feel like I did this. And I know you’re gonna say I did the right thing, but… What if I didn't? Think about it.” Sitting up, he folds his arms over his stomach, eyes still shut. “If I was dead, both of you could move on. I’m just… bogging you down with this bullshit, and I keep dragging us into these life and death situations, and I just can’t… I don’t wanna be a burden.

“And the more I think about it, the more I’m freaked the fuck out.” He curls in closer, nails digging into his sides when Castiel cradles his shoulder. Reassuring—it might as well be a death sentence. “I don’t wanna die, but I can’t stand seeing everyone hurt. And I can’t stop thinking about the gun under the pillow, and how easy it’d be to just…” Swallowing, Dean wills back the tears, the anguish in his chest. Sam rubs his knee over the sheets; Castiel strokes down his back—he doesn’t deserve their kindness. “Please just… say something.”

Sam doesn’t—he drags Dean into a hug instead, cold nose pressed to Dean’s neck. That alone breaks Dean, coupled with Castiel crowding closer, arm around his waist, head on his shoulder. “You’re not a burden,” Sam says, watery in his throat. “And I know you’re not gonna believe it, but it’s true. You not being here won’t magically fix the world, and you think we’d be able to move on after that?”

“Everything you’ve done, you’ve had the right intentions,” Castiel whispers. “And despite what the world has thrown at you, you’ve survived. And the world, and us both, would be lamented to not wake up every morning to see you, to hear your voice.”

“I’d miss you,” Sam says, fisting Dean’s shirt. “I wouldn’t be able to even look at the car without thinking about you.”

Castiel inches closer, side pressed flush to Dean’s own; Dean leans into him, a hand over his face, palm wet with tears. “I’ve lived longer than I care to remember, and even after your soul leaves the earth, I’ll continue on. But your memory won’t fade, and what you’ve done here has left a scar on the earth, and that’ll be your legacy.”

“Don’t want that as a legacy,” Dean manages, sucking in a breath. “I just don’t wanna be here. I don’t want… What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I just do what I’m told?”

No one answers—a car pulls up outside, the air conditioner shuts off, and all Dean hears are his own sobs, gnawing away at his sanity. And all the love in the world couldn’t save him.

-+-

A memory of blood and splintering bone wakes Dean around two in the morning. The noise remains, however, and only after staring out the window does he realize that someone’s car alarm is blaring. Not his own, thankfully; the owner shuts it off after a loud minute of rhythmic honking, and silence resumes, accompanied by Sam’s quiet snores.

Even then, his heart still pounds. Sitting up, he spots Castiel dozing at the desk, palms folded in his lap. “Hey,” Dean hisses, catching Castiel’s attention. “What’re you doing?”

Castiel blinks at him, squinting, only to widen shortly thereafter. “I forgot,” he replies. Stiffly, he stands and shrugs off his coat and suit jacket, layering them over the back of his chair. Face inexplicably wet, Dean watches Castiel approach the bed, crawling underneath the sheets in just his slacks and a button down, socks apparently foregone sometime during the night. “I wanted to give you space.”

Space—like he needs any more space right now, but Dean appreciates the sentiment. “Just…” Reaching out, his hand slips on Castiel’s sleeve, until Dean finds his wrist. “Please. Don’t make me ask for it.”

Blessedly, Castiel slides in behind him without question. Fabric brushes the back of Dean’s legs as they fit together, Castiel’s arm around his waist, Dean clinging to his hand like a lifeline. Briefly, he marvels at how well they fit together; Castiel’s warmth bleeds into him, easing the chill from his bones. His heart still beats, but slower now, nearing normal.

Slow, steady breaths. Castiel tugs Dean closer, until Dean swears his feels Castiel’s lips on his nape. Terrified as he is, he can’t bring himself to pull away; Castiel kisses his skin with kindness, no tongue, just slow presses of lips, meant to soothe.

More tears spring free; just barely, Dean manages to hold back a sob. “Cas…”

“I would miss you, more than you know,” Castiel says, incredibly soft. Hairs rise on Dean’s neck, and only by biting his lip does he keep from shouting. “I know I don’t have much faith anymore, but the one thing I do is you. So please,” another kiss, a warmer touch, “know that we’re here. I’m here, if you need anything.”

“Need you,” Dean stammers, clinging to Castiel’s hand. “Need you now.”

A thousand different ways, Dean always imagined this would go: alone in another motel, battered and bruised but alive; back home, buzzed and gravitating towards each other in the dark; in the front seat of the Impala, surrounded by stars and the night sky. Castiel tilts his chin up and kisses him, nothing like Dean ever expected. Frantic, Dean grasps for Castiel and drags him closer, until Castiel blankets him, hand pressed into the mattress, his other tugging Dean’s hair.

For what feels like hours, Dean loses himself in Castiel’s kiss, despite how his hands shake, how tears still streak his cheeks, disappearing into his hairline. Full lips capture his own, soft and plush, Castiel’s tongue equally as insistent; all too willingly, Dean gives in, clawing at Castiel’s shirt, nails threatening to tear holes in the fabric. They should talk about this—they should sit down and discuss their feelings in a comfortable environment, but Castiel pins Dean to the mattress and runs a hand down his shirt, fingers slipping underneath the hem—

Loudly and probably intentional, Sam snores, dragging Dean out of the moment. “Fuck,” Dean croaks and wipes his eyes, still clutching Castiel’s shoulder. Gingerly, Castiel strokes his cheek and pulls away, far enough to pull Dean flush once again, chest to chest. Too close— _not enough_. “Didn’t wanna stop.”

“You should sleep,” Castiel hushes. With his thumb, he wipes away the wetness pooling in the corner of Dean’s eye. “I’m here.”

 _That’s the problem_ , Dean thinks, and tucks his head under Castiel’s chin. _You love me too much, and I can’t handle it._

-+-

The rain dwindles to a drizzle by morning, the sky still as gray and gloomy as ever. Back to the wooden bench and a newspaper in his lap, Dean alternates between reading two-week-old local news and the washing machine a few feet away. Sam feeds quarters into one of the dryers on the opposite wall, humming along with the twang playing softly through the speaker in the corner. Castiel paces just because he can, with no one else in the laundromat to watch while he stares ahead, hands in his pockets.

All of it feels so mundane—faced with a world inundated by monsters and their possible imminent demise, and they’re at a laundromat, like nothing else matters.

“I saw you two last night,” Sam mentions as soon as Castiel is out of earshot. If he weren’t barefoot with his shoes locked in the spin cycle, Dean would run. Yet, Sam just plants himself at Dean’s side and glances over at the newspaper, now crumpling in Dean’s grip. “I’m not mad or anything—”

“Then why bring it up?” Dean shoots back.

Audibly, Sam sighs, shaking his head. “Because I want you to know that I’m… I’m just happy for you. I didn’t know you were—”

“I don’t know if we’re… anything.” Pointedly, Dean watches the washer while Castiel walks past, rounding the bench again. “We just kissed, it doesn’t…”

“But you wanted him to,” Sam supplies, and Dean can’t argue with that. “Look, I get it. And I know you’ve had a… thing for him for longer than I wanna remember, so whatever happens, I’m here for you both.”

At least there’s that—At least Sam isn’t throwing him out. “Not used to there being no strings attached,” Dean admits, rubbing the back of his neck. He turns the newspaper to the last page, scanning through the personal ads for anything unusual.

The words _Okefenokee Swamp_ and _Murder_ catch his eye just as Sam cuts in, “This is a good thing, right? I mean, Cas has always—”

“Hey, look at this.” Dean cuts him off with a slap to the thigh, direction his attention to the listing just above _Used Toyota Tercel_. “Cops a few miles south of here found a guy in the swamp with a hole bored through his skull.”

Sam cocks a brow. “Sound like our kind of thing?”

Dean nods, scrubs his face. _Need a shave_. “Unfortunately.”

-+-

“According to the Waycross Journal-Herald, another body was found last night at the CSX railyard,” Sam explains back at the motel, laptop propped up on his thighs. Dean squints at him from the nest of blankets Castiel draped around him, the chills once again wracking his body. Though, having Castiel hug him from behind helps, even if Dean can’t feel his touch through the layers. “No wounds except for a ‘gunshot wound to his head,’ according to police.”

“Sounds like a wraith,” Dean says, scratching his nose. “Did it say anything about the victim?”

Sam shrugs and reads on, scrolling down the webpage. “Says, Jordan Lewis recently lost both his brother and his girlfriend last month in a car accident. But here’s the thing, the person they found in the swamp? Another death, this time both of his best friends.”

“So both victims were experiencing grief,” Castiel says, chin now propped up on Dean’s shoulder. “Sadness can be powerful if harnessed correctly.”

“But don’t they normally go after—” But it makes sense, at least to Dean. Any other time, and he might not have put the pieces together as quickly. Wraiths feed off of emotions, typically the more disturbed, the better. Going after the grieving wouldn’t be too much of a stretch. And then—“What if I’m next?”

Sam’s turns fast enough to crack his neck; Castiel rears back, his touch suddenly rigid.

“I mean, look at me,” Dean laughs, verging on hysteric. “I’m pretty sure I’m having some kind of mental break, and it didn’t get this bad ‘til we pulled into town. What if—What if it’s coming after me, or causing this, or—”

“Dean.” Castiel shushes him with a hand over his eyes. Unorthodox, but it helps keep him centered. “Whatever you’re experiencing, it was already there. But if the wraith is targeting you specifically and disrupting your hormone levels—”

“Then it knows,” Sam says, to Dean’s horror. “But that doesn’t mean it’s coming after you?”

Jerking the blanket tighter, Dean fights the urge to hide. “Then what else does it mean? ‘Cause it’s not like I wanna be an icicle over here.”

At that, Sam stands and places a hand on Dean’s forehead, brow furrowing. “He’s not feverish,” Castiel says, presumably looking at Sam. “His body is convinced he’s in shock.”

“Which is a load of fun, by the way,” Dean says through a shiver. “Love if it’d stop any time now.”

“Well, the good thing is, it’s easy to kill if we can find it.” Sam sits beside Dean, one leg hanging off the side of the bed. “But until then, if it’s actually coming after you… Are we safe here?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel sighs. He rests his forehead atop Dean’s shoulder, and for a split second, Dean senses his fear, rushing through him like a wave. “I can kill it, yes, but if Dean is truly under its influence, I fear… that you may let it happen.”

Dean sucks in a breath, hoping to stave off the sudden nausea. Their last run in with a wraith, he can still vividly remember Sam’s descent, the hallucinations, the anger… All through touch. And whatever this is, it’s controlling him at a distance, waiting for him to finally break, whether in public or behind a locked door. “It wants me at my weakest,” Dean mumbles. “And it’s gonna follow if we leave here. So what if we just… make it come to us?”

Aloud, it sounds like a terrible idea—in his head, even more so. Sam opens his mouth to scold him, or to scream, but neither falls from his lips. Instead, Sam just lets out a breath and pats his knees, scraping his nails against the fabric. “This is the worst idea in the world,” he says, and Dean can’t disagree. “Just… letting it try to kill you?”

“Like you guys said, if it’s looking for me, then it’s not gonna stop.” Dean pinches the bridge of his nose, allowing his stomach to settle before he speaks again. “We’ll go back to the church, wait around and see if it shows. Figure, at least one of us can gut the thing before it…” He stops, breathes. “I just don’t wanna feel like this anymore. I just wanna… Can we go home yet?”

Still holding on, Castiel nods. “We’ll finish here, and then we’ll go,” he decides.

“We’ll go home, Dean,” Sam promises, patting Dean’s shoulder.

For once, Dean hopes it’s the truth.

-+-

Thunder cracks overhead, loud enough to rattle the church’s foundation. White-knuckled, Dean sits in the pews and grits his teeth, listening to the rain pelt the tin roof, hail joining in. Objectively, he knows Sam and Castiel are waiting behind the back door, but sitting here, alone, leaves him on edge. Idly, he bounces his knee in a vain effort to keep calm, or mainly to keep his sanity.

Because it’s here. Dean senses the wraith more than sees it, its presence somewhere close to the church. Underneath his thigh, he hides a silver knife, within reach if he needs it—if he can grab it in time, as well. The closer the wraith gets, the further Dean slips backwards, strength drained from his hands, exhaustion slumping his shoulders. If it wanted, it could kill him right now, before anyone even knew it was there. And the worst thing about it, is that Castiel is right—Dean would let it kill him, solely because his brain _wants_ the release of death. Craves it, in a sickening way, one that roils Dean’s gut.

He doesn’t want to die—the wraith makes him think otherwise, its presence like a tumor inside his brain. Nagging, persistent, growing larger—Dean wants to rip it out of his skull. “Just get it over with,” he says to himself, eyes slipping shut. The foundation shudders; wind gusts past the windows.

Any other day, Dean could shove aside the self-deprecation and pour himself into his work, from research to interviews, to digging graves if need be. Any other day, and sitting alone in a room wouldn't hurt like this. Willing isolation almost feels like abandonment, and through his fogged brain, Dean can’t tell the difference. _They left you here to die_ , his mind supplies, the voice growing nastier, more vicious. _But that’s how you wanted it, isn’t it_? _That way, they can’t see you get lobotomized._

“Shut up,” Dean stammers. Limply, he rubs his eye, fingers gone cold. _Side effect_ , he thinks. A side effect of the monster walking up the front steps, creeping in through the double doors. The latch clicks, the temporary roar of the storm abated, replaced with hollow silence and a steady ringing in his ears. “Sam,” he slurs, head lolling forward. The room spins; footsteps echo. “Cas…”

“It’s alright now,” a woman’s voice assures. Her presence looms closer, and the pew behind him creaks. Two frigid hands caress his neck, one massaging his throat, the other stroking through his hair. He can’t move— _This is it, this is how I’m gonna go_. “I felt you for miles,” she says, soothing in a way that Dean has only ever heard from sirens. “I felt your loneliness, your desperation. Your guilt, most of all, that’s the most delicious part.” She stops to breathe in, just as her hand settles behind his ear. The sharp tip of her spike prods his skin, drawing blood. “Do you remember, the diner in White Springs? You ordered pecan pie, and gave me a fifteen dollar tip. Such a sweet man, you are.”

 _Her_ —Dean remembers her. Last week on their way out of Florida, at a diner that could barely be called a restaurant. But they were open twenty-four-seven, and after pulling three all-nighters in a row, he needed something to keep him awake. From what he can recall, she was beautiful, all red hair and freckles, wearing a green apron that brought out her eyes. What she looks like now, he doesn’t even want to think about—and probably won’t get a chance to, either.

“You've suffered for so long, child,” she whispers, palm pressed over his mouth, her spike boring into his skull. “Just hold still, and I’ll set you free. Won’t that be nice?” A laugh. Dean blinks, tears tracking his face; red tints his vision, and helplessly, he struggles to scream, to no avail. “I can taste it, how much you long for death. Your despair is just—”

Gunshots ring out—Dean barely hears them over the blood rushing through his ears and no doubt down the side of his neck. Her body falls, and the spike retreats, but not before puncturing something, and Dean collapses, blackness creeping into his vision. Lying on the floor, he watches her face melt, revealing rotted skin and bone—figures, the last thing he sees before he dies is hell itself.

-+-

The sensation of cotton against his cheek catches Dean’s attention more than the motor running or the fact that he’s not the one behind the wheel. His first instinct is to jerk up, to see who’s stolen the Impala, but his body won’t move. Not necessarily numb, but held in place, both by the arm around his waist and the hand stroking through his hair, slivers of Grace spilling into his body.

Particularly, his brain. One eye open, Dean blurrily glances up to find Castiel looking down at him, brow furrowed in concentration. He presses two fingers behind Dean’s ear once again, allowing Grace to pour into the wound and heal the interior damage. Incremental, designed to help him heal while he rests—somehow, he survived.

“Sam,” Castiel says, looking up now, his words fuzzy in Dean’s ears. “How much farther?”

“Still a couple miles,” Sam replies back, sudden and horrified. “Did he wake up?”

The world around Dean slows: the engine dies down, gravel crunches under the wheels, and soon, all he can see is Sam and Castiel’s faces illuminated by the moon. The moon— _the storm is over_. “Can you hold still for me?” Castiel asks, to Dean’s nod. “Tell me if you lose feeling.”

Briefly, Dean’s vision goes white, or brightens—he can’t tell which, not when Castiel covers his eyes and releases the full brunt of his power, wedging its way into every part of Dean’s body. To remove the venom, he guesses, but it still stings, even after Castiel’s Grace retreats. All that remain are bloodstains and a pounding headache, and cramped knees from lying in the backseat.

“Fuck,” he wheezes, only to hear Sam choke on a laugh. “I’m not dead, am I? ‘Cause this is not how I pictured heaven.”

“No, you’re down here with the rest of us,” Sam says, wiping his eyes dry. “You scared the shit out of us back there, you know that?”

“I can imagine,” Dean grunts. Looking over to Castiel, he spots the wetness welling in his eyes, and wipes it away before either of them can comment. “Don’t get sappy on me here, man. Gonna make me cry.”

Castiel shakes his head, but falls into Dean’s touch, eyes slipping shut. “I didn’t think you’d wake up,” he admits, lip trembling just the slightest in the dark. “You were paralyzed when we got to you. She severed your spinal cord, and you were…”

“You need a shower, for one,” Sam adds, allowing Castiel to gather himself. “We’ll talk about it back at the room, okay? Think you can stay awake that long?”

 _Probably_ , but the rest of Dean just wants to sleep, now that he has full control of his body once again. Hopefully, just for a few hours—hopefully, not all day. “Keep me up,” he says, a silent plea, and glances up at Castiel. Calloused fingers brush his cheek; Dean turns, forehead pressed to Castiel’s stomach. “Don’t wanna… Don’t wanna sleep.”

“Rest,” Castiel says, stroking through his sweat-soaked hair. “We’ll wake you when we arrive.”

 _Thank you_ , Dean thinks, and sighs deep enough to make his lungs ache. Leather shifts, the engine starts, and Dean fades, allowing the night to take him, this time painlessly.

-+-

Showering takes more effort than it should, especially when his limbs refuse to cooperate, sluggish with sleep and the lasting effects of venom circulating through his system. Through half-lidded eyes, Dean watches the water run red between his toes. Minutely, he feels the tension leave his muscles, aided by the spray beating down on his shoulders, warming previously chilled skin.

For the first time in days, Dean can actually _feel_ —not just physically, but emotionally, the pleasure that something so simple brings. Standing there, he allows his body to soften, rolling his shoulders ever so slowly, rotating his wrists, flexing his fingers. “Should’ve just taken a bath,” he says to himself, tilting his face to the ceiling. Unconsciously, he rubs the knot of skin behind his ear, a scar Castiel left behind for some unknown reason. Touching it, he swallows down the pain of the last few days.

He can deal with this, just like he always has. But this time, he has his family with him, and they want the best for him. They _love_ him, a concept so foreign, yet so desperately needed.

The door cracks open and shuts just as quietly, a sign if anything that someone—probably Sam, based on the time of night—is asleep. Peering around the corner, Dean watches Castiel squint against the light, pinpoint pupils soon focusing on him. “Sam told me to tell you goodnight,” Castiel says and shrugs off his coat, folding it in half to lay over the sink. Dean flushes even deeper the more Castiel removes, and soon hides behind the curtain, staring at the tile grout.

The curtain shifts shortly after, and a warm body steps close, hand to his hip. Natural, he thinks; like Castiel was always meant to be here. “How are you feeling?” Castiel asks as he slides his arms around Dean’s waist, dragging him until Dean can feel every inch of skin against his back, the steady thump of Castiel’s heart beating into his shoulder blade.

Dean hums, covering Castiel’s hands with his own. Terrified, he shivers, and this time, not from the cold. “Numb,” he confesses. Slowly, he rocks in Castiel’s embrace, hums when Castiel kisses his neck. “Head feels like I got ran through a blender, but… I’m used to that. I can deal with it, but… doesn’t mean I wanna.”

“You know we’re here for you,” Castiel says, squeezing Dean tighter. “And—”

“Same,” Dean cuts in. “I mean… I’m here for you too.” And he turns in the circle of Castiel’s arms, eventually snaking his own around Castiel’s neck. Foreheads touch; Castiel kisses him, once, chaste with just the barest edge of lust. _Not tonight_ , Dean knows, but tomorrow—and for however long they have left in this hellscape they now call home. “Didn’t think it was that bad ‘til…” He shakes his head, buries his face in Castiel’s neck. “Scared myself. Can I say that?”

“You can tell me anything,” Castiel assures. Nimble fingers pet through his hair, mussing up the wet strands. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re here. I was… afraid for you, from the moment we left you. I didn’t think we’d find you in time.”

“But you did.” Sighing, Dean pulls back and palms Castiel’s shoulders. “You and Sammy both got me outta there. And you kept me alive, and you stayed with me, and… No one’s ever tried that hard for me before.”

The smile Castiel gives him melts his heart; tears well in his eyes, and Castiel wipes them away, gathering the salt on his thumb. “Time and time again, I’ve told you, I’ll be here,” he whispers, chasing the words with another kiss. “Though, I think I’d also prefer to be with you, in every capacity.”

Dean snorts, squeezing Castiel’s nape. Acutely, he realizes just where—and how naked—they are, thigh to thigh, chest to chest; that doesn’t stop him from dragging Castiel into another hug, allowing their hearts to sync, breaths rhythmic. “Feels sappy, saying I… You know how I feel, right?”

“I love you too,” Castiel says, plain as day. He pulls away long enough to cup Dean’s face, cheeks burning hot against his palms. “You don’t have to be scared, Dean. We’re… I’m here.”

He knows—Dean has always known, but hearing it makes his heart ache, makes him want to burrow into Castiel’s wings and never leave. “Don’t let go,” he says, as close to a beg he can muster. “Please, don’t…”

“Never,” Castiel promises with another kiss. “Not even if you told me to.”

-+-

Sunlight pours through the open curtains the following morning, blinding Dean even before he can fully process that he’s awake. “Fuck,” he groans, automatic, and rolls over to face the warm body nestled behind him, bedhead and all. One blue eye watches him, the other crushed into the pillow; his arm drapes around Dean’s waist, limp but warm, gaining strength. “How long you been there?”

“You fell asleep in the shower,” Castiel replies, fighting back a yawn. “I carried you out, and you wouldn’t let me go.”

Dean snorts—sounds like him. On a numb arm, Dean struggles to lean up even just the slightest, only to see Sam missing from the other bed. _Huh_. “Where’d Sammy run off to?”

Castiel rubs his eye, then pulls the blankets over their heads, blocking out the sunlight. “Gas and breakfast, or so he said. That was five minutes ago.”

 _Five minutes_. “We should probably get up,” he says, but shuffles closer, kissing the line of Castiel’s jaw. “Gotta get back on the road.”

“It would be wise,” Castiel says. Deep in his chest, he hums into Dean’s subsequent kiss, eventually pushing him down into the mattress. “It’s two days to Kansas, if we leave now.”

“Too much effort,” Dean relents, and drags Castiel down, until he forgets the last week and the dull but dissipating headache behind his eyes.

In the early morning light, Castiel kisses him like he’s starved for air; Dean clings to him, parting his legs enough for Castiel to slip a knee between his thighs, offering something to rut against if he wanted—and Dean desperately wants. His need for comfort overrides his libido, though, and eventually, he softens his hold, slowing his kiss just enough for Castiel to catch on, eventually falling beside him once again.

“Slow,” Dean urges, hand to Castiel’s hip, legs dovetailing together. Nodding, Castiel pulls him back in, gentler, fingers petting through Dean’s hair, curling around his ear. A moan rumbles free, coaxed by the subtle press of naked hips. Not so much to get off, but just to feel closer, caught up in the warmth of skin and bodies pressed flush.

Castiel’s tongue teases the seam of his lips, and hands creep up his ribs—and involuntarily, Dean jerks away, breath stolen in a laugh. “Don’t—” he manages, but Castiel just redoubles his efforts and sends Dean into a fit of pained laughter, kicking the sheets off and right onto Sam’s shoes—

 _Sam_. “Oh my god,” Sam groans, a hand over his eyes. “You couldn’t wait until we got home—”

“You’re supposed to be—somewhere else,” Dean squeaks and fights for the blankets, shoving them over his lap. Castiel, meanwhile, just laughs and covers himself, shameless in his nudity. “You get an eyeful?”

“I wish I hadn’t,” Sam squawks. “You know, when I said I was happy for you, I didn’t mean scar me for life—”

“In our defense, we weren’t doing anything scandalous,” Castiel quips with a grin. “Now, five minutes from now—”

“Alright, alright.” Dean shoves Castiel’s shoulder, entirely playful. “Please tell me you got gas?”

“And McDonalds,” Sam supplies. Still shielding his eyes, he tosses Dean the brown paper bag in his hand, along with a pair of jeans from the floor—clean, thankfully. “Please put those on while I put my stuff in the trunk?”

Dean salutes him with three fingers and waits until he closes the door, disappearing into the carport to their left. “You could’ve at least given me some underwear,” he finally says, breaking into a laugh. “Fuck, feel like I got whiplash.”

“It’ll take some time, flushing the venom from your system,” Castiel says, sliding off the bed. His slacks still sit on the lip of the sink, and Dean follows him into the bathroom, pants and a fresh pair of underwear in hand. In Sam’s absence, Dean crowds Castiel against the sink and kisses him, one more time before they leave for Kansas—and hopefully stay there, for a few days at the most before setting out once again. Castiel pets the short hairs along the back of Dean’s neck, earning a contented sigh. “And I told you—”

“You’ll both be here,” Dean nods. He hides his smile with a kiss, and hums when Castiel tugs him closer, skating his hand down Dean’s spine. “Thank you, for… Just, thanks.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Castiel confides, then kisses Dean’s cheek. “You just have to stay.”

He can do that. Despite how hard it might be some days, Dean can stay—can keep living, if it means that he sees the end of the fight, if he can make a home for Castiel and Sam. If he can love them both, and be loved in return, even if it kills him in the end.

“Love you,” Dean whispers, and kisses Castiel’s grin off his lips. _And I’ll never stop_.

**Author's Note:**

> I was supposed to be finishing another fic when this one popped in my head, so maybe I'll go back to writing that one, or I'll start writing my novella? Who knows! Spin the wheel! Anyway, as a person with depression and anxiety, this hit way too close to home as I wrote it. Also known as, Dean deserves a bunch of hugs and to sleep more than four hours. 
> 
> Title is from the Travis Tritt song.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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